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Access Hollywood | Inside the Directors Guild Awardshttp://tmagazine.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/01/30/access-hollywood-inside-the-directors-guild-awards/
http://tmagazine.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/01/30/access-hollywood-inside-the-directors-guild-awards/#commentsMon, 30 Jan 2012 21:36:22 +0000http://tmagazine.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/01/30/access-hollywood-inside-the-directors-guild-awards/David Fincher wasn’t there because “The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo” was opening in Tokyo. Woody Allen appeared by video because he said he’s less impressive in person. Martin Scorsese was riveting and inspirational as he talked about how his afternoons spent with his father at the movies had influenced him to make “Hugo,” and effused about his searing love for cinema (and apparently rock ‘n’ roll as his rock documentaries are in a class by themselves). But I confess, I could listen to Marty Scorsese read the phone book — his speech patterns and intense energy instantly draw you into a world you wish you were a part of. Besides the glasses, I don’t know what he was wearing.

The D.G.A. Awards aren’t televised, so the pressure to dress isn’t quite as intense as it is at, say, another awards show this season, prompting one person at our table, as a crush of people walked by, to say, “What’s the difference between this and a bar mitzvah?”

I could answer that aside from the Wolfgang Puck-catered dinner (a splash of seafood as an appetizer followed by his signature short ribs) and the place card (a tiny gold director’s chair with each guest’s name engraved, which no one would dare leave behind) there was Dame Helen Mirren, absolutely stunning in a Badgley Mischka almost the color of Champagne, and her husband, Taylor Hackford, the president of the DGA, perfectly coiffed as always, in a beautifully tailored tux by the British designer Spencer James; Christine Lahti in a low-cut, tightfitting brilliant red dress by the L.A. designer Pamela Barish; Jennifer Aniston in a beaded little black dress, emphasis on little; George Clooney, who’s always perfect but whose date inexplicably seemed to be the director of “The Descendants,” Alexander Payne; Michelle Williams in a one-strapped dress with a beaded shoulder that almost looked like a jeweled bird. With her short hair and fragile beauty, she looked like the princess at the ball. (Low-cut and one-strapped are definitely trending, at least in L.A.)

The best-dressed person in the room, hands down, was the star of “The Artist,” Bérénice Bejo, wearing a Roman-inspired gold and black strappy dress, with a modern neo-constructed flare that launched it into the 20th century (or the early ’20s, anyway) with open-toed heels that had so many straps they, too, seemed almost gladiator inspired but so delicate that you knew she could dance. Head-to-toe Gucci. She was perfectly paired to her husband (with the unpronounceable name, although everyone pronounced it perfectly), the extraordinarily gifted director of “The Artist,” Michel Hazanavicious, who was wearing a Prada tux and exuded the same calm he’s famous for on set and a slightly quizzical look, which apparently he’s also well known for, as if there’s a laugh hidden somewhere just below the calm.

It was a good night for women. Katy Garretson, glowing in a low-cut long Robert Rodriguez dress, won the Frank Capra Achievement Award. Two other women were honored, as well: Amy Schatz for Children’s Programming and Patty Jenkins, who almost looked like a movie star herself as she accepted the award for directing the pilot of “The Killing.” (We’re getting there — it was almost a banner year.)

There were no politics — the host Kelsey Grammer oddly restrained — just a guild honoring its members, a group so talented and skilled that it was palpable. As was the slight tension at the end: in the D.G.A.’s more than 60 years of existence, only four times has the winner of the Best Feature Film not gone on to receive the Academy Award. It’s always been a benchmark.

Even though the indie titan Harvey Weinstein didn’t know what he was wearing, he obligingly opened his jacket to reveal a tag from Raymond James. “My wife picks my clothes,” he said; she clearly wasn’t in Los Angeles to tie his tie. His eye for talent and art is unerring, though — the award for best director went to one of his own, the director with the unpronounceable name, Michel Hazanavicious, for the brilliant, original, romantic and compelling silent film (distributed by the Weinstein Company), “The Artist.” And Michel Hazavanicious remained the calmest person in the room, with that slightly quizzical look on his face, as if there were a laugh about to bubble up to the surface.